Sign o' the Times

Once the piercing sound of blazing horns

Has spilled into the shells where we were born,

And the makers of this music let these selfless chords just run,

Then the calling has arrived, to be embellished in the sun;

Once improvised magic has drawn the sickened soul to rise,

And let salamander sentences overwrite an old disguise;

When seeds of sound sow light across this room,

And we are crowned in drowning waves of a lunatic monsoon;

Once the webs of our retina yoke have been soaked in starlit night imagination,

And angel tears besmear our painting of creation,

That smudges into forms of unborn solar clay;

A whisper in the ear-corn of the valley’s day;

That explodes into the naked sun-drops of our sacred rituals,

Swimming in apartments of imagination pools;

Filtered through the snooze of mother earth’s creation tree,

Whose archaic branches unfurl into the foliage of all that we can be.

Once these sightless dreamers have abandoned seeming destinations,

And are formed into collective crystal constellations,

Gathered in the fire of this central commune flat,

And extinguished in desire that this is where its at;

Embrace the path released from higher drapes

And following the flight of incense candle shapes;

Are marooned onto the moon, where voices fall into the flow,

Where timeless travellers have made their nest, in the centre of the glow.

Once this weathered burst of thirsty wanderers

Are washed onto the shores of their creative sorcerer,

And fill into the caverns of their Emerald light display;

Where cosmic chords weave planetary lords

Into these soldiers built of clay:

To let the dust of ages rain onto the pages of every uninspired eye,

Until the rock & roll has burnt our soul,

And shadows merge around the light, where they embrace to die.

Once these homeless prophets have been led upon a pilgrimage,

And felt their forest feet into the foliage,

Where forgotten silence whispers through the poppy fields,

Leading ravished eyes into the marble temple, where their lips are sealed;

And all their heart burnt smoke returns into the golden Buddha statue,

Flourishing into the light mosaic that we knew;

Where on fallen knees we greave in gratefulness

For a return to human emptiness.

For once these doors are drenched in light connecting nodes,

That swim between the veins of our sane abode,

We roll back into papyrus scrolls,

A sanctuary for our souls,

And in the aftermath of where our ego must release its hold,

We sink into the ink of ancient tales we always told.

And once the void has shed

Its voice onto the ocean bed,

And shared its silver mist

In which the ancient image does insist

To see this dawn arise in snow,

We step into our own beginning, where faded voices flow

Into horizon’s holy morning dew,

And recognise ourselves as all the same,

As enchanted endings sing the splendour of the circle,

And hidden in the light, arise without a name,

To see the revolution of, eternity’s awaited cycle.